


on a field of stars

by mikkal



Series: at least I had the strength to fight [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt Noctis Lucis Caelum, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 16:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: Havens can be big enough for multiple people, but hunters generally don't like sharing. Things get messy when Noctis and his friends are confronted by trigger-happy hunters(hurt!noct week prompt day seven: noctis fights through severe injury to save himself and/or the bros)





	on a field of stars

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally something completely different that's going to be posted as it's own story now. I got to 4,647 words before I realized it was projecting to be 12,000plus and, I mentioned In the notes of the last story, that I've been sick these last few days.
> 
> So, day 7 on 8 is this. A few people mentioned they liked the idea of having to fight other hunters for stuff and it made me thing of havens. I'm actually happy with this despite how last minute it is and how not good I feel. . I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Also, this is shorter than normal, yeah. When I said it’s last minute, I changed my mind last night as I was going to bed. So I woke up, popped some laundry in, and smashed this out in four hours. I tried my best to catch mistakes, but...I’m not known for my clean writing.)

  
They hadn’t known who he was.

It’s more relieving than he thought it would be.

Waking up is a chore, a gradual, all consuming, painful chore. Noctis is aware of pain before he’s aware that there’s grass and twigs under his back instead of the rough rock of the haven. It starts at his side, clawing up to his chest to seize his lungs, his throat burning raw, his face numb in some places and stinging in others.

He’s tempted to just lay there and go back to sleep, let the static feeling in his head taking over once more. But then the wind picks up, bringing the smell of smoke and the yipping and moaning of saberclaws. It’s only then that he remembers everything—setting the haven up with his friends. Halfway through their dinner routine when a group of hunters climbed the slope. The hunters deciding to take their haven instead of risking the trek to the next one. The hunter deciding they just didn’t want to share.

Noctis groans out loud, something he regrets immediately when his throat flares with pain, as the memories assault him. He remembers Ignis trying to play peacemaker despite the anger in the set of his shoulders. He remembers Gladio stepping forward aggressively, defending Noctis and Prompto. He remembers Prompto terrified out of his mind because humans had never tried to push them out a haven before—take their hunt spoils, yeah, but there was always an unspoken agreement that if someone claimed a haven, it was theirs. He remembers one of the other hunters raising a gun to take a cheap shot at Ignis.

He remembers warping before he could, thoughts scrambled. He’d warped in front of Ignis, throwing him to the side, the bullet grazing his shoulder blade and just barely avoiding lodging into the muscle. Everything after that erupted into a chaos. His memories a blur of swords swings and gunshots, someone shouting his name. He’d tipped off the edge of the haven towards the end, already burning with pain, but he never got the chance to warp back up before someone started taking potshots at him, laughing maniacally about making him dance.

Noct had warped to get away from each shot, going side to side at first until he had to warp farther and farther away into the cloak of darkness. He got to the point of the blue smoke of magic in the sky being the only thing visible before stasis teased his awareness and the pain became too much.

He passed out, right then and there, in the middle of nowhere.

And now he’s awake, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. He carefully touches his side, unable to help the whine when his fingers made contact with slick warmth. The edges of the spreading blood are cool, meaning he’s been out here for a while. He has to clamp down on the panic at that—that means, his friends never came out for him. And if they never came out for him, what happened to them? He shoves it aside, it’s not going to help him right now, and focuses on exploring the wound with the tips of his fingers. It’s deep and wide, eating into his stomach and his lower chest, almost like something took a shallow bite out of it.

What sort of weapon could make a wound like that?

Noctis reaches into the armory, looking for a potion, crying when he finds only one. Shit. That’s right… Shit. They were doing an inventory of them during dinner, like they normally do, and that one potion was the only one to be marked in Ignis’ little book and shoved back into the armory before the hunters came.

He debates using it, actually. What if, when he finally makes it back, one of the guys needs it more than him? But then his side throbs, as if reminding him its there, and he just...he can’t do it. So with a little guilt, he breaks the potion of his side, sighing in relief as the healing magic washing over him. He practically feels the edges of the wound start to knit itself together.

All too soon, the relief stops and the pain comes back like a sledgehammer—nothing gradual about it. He screams, long and loud, clutching at his side with a crimson slicked hand. His vision spots at the corner, threatening to send him back to the darkness, but he fights it, clawing his way back until his vision is encompassed by the brilliant sight of the night sky absolutely filled with glittering stars. The Path of Birds shines down on him, the thick, silver river of stars twisting a trail through the sky. In Insomnia, it never looked like this, so clear and bright. The lights of the city drowned it all out.

He lays there for who knows how long, breathing slowly through the pain. In through his mouth, out through his nose. His eyes flutter shut, only to be forced open when he feels himself drifting. No, no. He can’t sleep. It hurts not to, but he can’t do it.

The saberclaws are getting louder and closer. Noctis freezes, gasping when the pain flares. He strains to hear how close, hoping and praying to any Astral who’s listening and who might give a damn that they’re far enough away he can summon a weapon and make his way back to the haven with no troubles. They would be attracted by the scent of his blood, no doubt, and the taste of scared prey in the breeze.

They come closer and closer, until they veer to the left towards the river, their yipping getting more excited. Noctis goes slack in relief, head thumping back on the ground. He stares a the sky again, steeling himself for the pain that’s about to come.

Noctis heaves himself up slowly, of course not slow enough he realizes when he feels a fresh waves of blood gushing down his side. He doesn’t stop, though. He rolls to his good side, struggling to get his arms to give him enough support, and slowly gets to his knees. Once there, the idea of climbing to his feet actually makes him want to cry...If he hadn’t already been crying not-so-silent, steady tears this whole time. Noct summons his engine blade in a flash of blue power crystals, holds his breath for a moment while he waits to hear a reaction to it—whether it’s from a hunter looking to make sure he’s actually dead or a saberclaw who’s distracted—and then drives the tip of the blade into the ground to use as leverage.

He bites back a scream with gritted teeth, uses his arms for most of the work. Which, probably a bad idea. He never realized exactly how much he used that part of his body in everyday stuff. Yeah, he’s strained there before, got a stitch in his side, and it hurt. But it usually faded easily. It never lingered to remind him how often he took the ability to bend that way or lift his hands over his head or even friggin’ breathe for granted.

But he gets to his feet and he stays there, no matter how much he sways or the corners of his vision crawls with black spots. He sort of wishes he had a cane or crutch in the armory now, even though that thought makes the sick feel in his stomach double. All he can do, without one, is shuffle along through the dry grass and use his sword as a makeshift one. It’s bad for the blade, Gladio’s gonna give him hell for it, but it’s either that or let the saberclaws take him.

Noctis keeps his eyes on the smoke of the haven, lets it be his guiding star, the light at the end of the tunnel his focus has become. He stumbles here and there, tripping over rocks and and sticks. He falls, at one point, rocks biting into his knees, his palm scraping against the ground when he throws it out to catch himself. He braces his wound as he stands back up, panting short, sharp breaths, his face slick with sweat, blood dripping down his chin from where he bit through it.

He almost questions what the point is. When he gets to the haven, what use is he going to be in the state he’s in? What if his friends are also so injured they could barely fight? What if they’re dead? Oh, Astrals, what if they’re dead?

He’s close enough to see the orange glow of the fire now and the silhouette of people. Two of them standing, six of them closer to the ground like they’re sitting. His heart leaps to his throat in hope. There were five hunters, meaning three of those silhouettes are either hunters who came later or they’re his friends.

Noct stops, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. It’s pointless, no matter how much he tries, his chest crackles every time and his side feels like it’s on fire. Plan. Plan. He needs a plan. He needs something fast and dirty, because he’s not going to last very long. He’s losing more blood than he can afford, both that and the pain is making it harder to focus. His throat is starting to feel less raw and more swollen, closing up his airways. His face burns, covered in scratches, a slice deep in his cheek and a blotch of sticky, drooling blood on his temple to drip into his eyes.

Warp. He’ll warp. Take out on the standing guys. If he uses his daggers then as soon as he gets the first guy, he can throw the second dagger at the next. Either he can follow it through or just leave it to get whatever guy is coming up. Or, he could warp the first guy, throw his dagger at the second, and then use a level one ice flask to ice the other three. Prom’s a Ribbon tied around his bicep—it won’t protect him completely, but at most he’ll get a little frosty. Gladio has an Ice Crest attached to his boot. Ignis has a Rune Earring to boost his magic so he can warm himself with the low level fire spell he knows—one that he somehow let Prompto convince him to equip where it should go, meaning Prom convinced Iggy to pierce his ear. Something Gladio and Noctis won’t let him live down. Noctis mostly because it’s not fair Iggy’s immune to his puppy-eyes, but once Prom whips them out, he melts instantly.

He’d be jealous if he didn’t know any better.

Anyway. That sounds like a better plan.

Noctis lets his engine blade fall back to the armory, slumping even more against the tree when he loses that extra support. It hurts when he takes his daggers instead, his core tugging sharply. He’s not going to last much longer. The stasis he’s been trying to ignore and push away is nudging him stubbornly still.

He takes as deep a breath as he’s able, hitching half way through.

Noctis takes aim at the closet man, his vision wavering, his heart pounding in his ears. He sends up one last prayer—his finds himself looking to the Astrals to get them through everything more and more since Insomnia’s fall, he’s not sure how he feels about that—and throws his dagger as hard as he can. It only makes it halfway, but he throws his second dagger the second him comes back into existence. It falls short again, but Noctis’ momentum sends him careening in the man, shoving the dagger’s blade into his chest with a sickening crunch.

The rest of the men scramble to their feet, shouting. Noctis doesn’t give his second target a chance to raise his gun—recognizing him as the one who tried to shoot Ignis—and throws his second dagger into his shoulder. The moment that gives him, he summons a blizzard flask and smashes it at his feet. It shatters, ice billowing out like a fog. Noctis takes the brunt of it, absorbing some of the magic so the power is at half level. His teeth chatter, his knees buckle and tremble, his fingers go numb.

He hears Prompto shout in surprise, his sight too blurry to fully focus. Vaguely, he knows where his friends are, he stumbles in that direction, gripping the handle of his dagger too tightly. He feels out for someone, finding Gladio’s shoulder.

“Noct,” his Shield says, surprised. “Shit.”

He blinks rapidly at him, Gladio just one big blur of brown skin and muscle. Noct drags a hand down his arm, feeling dried blood caked on his skin, until he reaches rope that wraps tightly all the way around both arms from above his elbows to his wrists. His hands shake as he saws at the bindings.

“Gods, Noct,” Prompto breathes, “you look awful.”

Noctis barks out a laugh even though it hurts. “Th-Thanks,” he rasps out. “Feel the l-love, bud.” His words are barely more than whisper, Prompto makes a noise of despair.

Talking is a bad idea. It steals what little strength he’s been clinging on to since he warped. His legs buckles, his fingers go slack. And he’s falling. Falling. Ignis calls for him, but his hearing washes away to blood roaring through his ears. He slumps against Gladio, leaning his forehead between his shoulder blades, desperately trying to get air into his lungs.

Gladio’s shaking, he can feel his words rumbling his whole body, but Noct doesn’t have the energy to do...anything, really.

“Noct. Noct!” Gladio? It sounds like it’s coming from under water. “You gotta move. Noct, c’mon, move. They’re not down.” Gladio shoves his body back, startling Noctis back into awareness. “Noct! Move!”

“You little bastard!” There’s two men left, and they don’t look happy. Noct’s only halfway through Gladio’s ropes. Shit.

Noctis has two choices. He could fight with the chance of dying. Or he could try and finish freeing Gladio and hope he can do that faster than the men can take him down. He wills his second dagger into the armory to he can yank it back out to throw at one of them. The throw’s not strong enough, not enough spin. It hits the man flat edged and he laughs. Noctis attacks the ropes with renewed energy that fizzles and pops.

“I’m surprised you’re not dead,” the man says, picking the dagger up. He twirls it between his fingers. “That was a pretty big fall. And that wound doesn’t look too good, boy.”

Noctis ignores him. Tries to not notice the way the second man has disappeared, trying to come up in a blind spot. He wills his dagger back. The man flinches in surprise of the weapon disappearing from his hand. He’s almost done. Almost done. Another inch and Gladio could practically rip through the rest of the rope.

Pain explodes in his shoulder. He screams, lurching against Gladio’s back. His friend shout his name. Prompto, the only one who can see behind Ignis and Gladio, snarls threats at the other man remaining as he twists a knife into Noctis’ shoulder. Noctis screams and screams as the man pulls up on the grip of the knife, causing the sharp blade of it to cut through his body slowly and painfully.

Suddenly, he loses his support in the front. Gladio roaring in rage drowns out Noct’s screaming. It dies down to whimpers, Noctis curling forward to rest his forehead on the haven’s rocky ground, the blade shifting in his shoulder. The presence behind him disappears. Someone goes screaming, the noise getting farther away.

He loses time. Loses so much time. Hands touch his face and it hurts. Someone touches his shoulder and it hurts. Everything hurts. He cries out, weakly trying to bat them away, but they stay firm. The knife disappears in a wave of fire. Someone rolls him to his back. The world shifts and moves, something solid and warms curls underneath his legs and shoulders, lifting him up against Gladio’s—because it can really only be him—chest. The movement pulls at his wound, stretching it to its limit. He keens, high pitched and pained.

Next thing he’s aware of is staring up at the ceiling of the Regalia, but the car swerves and he blacks out.

The next time he wakes up, he’s still in pain, but not as much thankfully, and above him is the off-white of a motel room ceiling. His shoulder feels thick and heavy, his side is a sizable lump under the sheets, his face is stiff and weird. Too much time between injury and potion, again.

He hears a shower running and the crinkle of a food wrapper. His vision is sleep-blurry as he peers around. Ignis sits at the little table, compulsively folding a sandwich wrapper in halves. Gladio’s nowhere to be seen—probably in the shower. Prompto sits on the floor next to his bed, one arm pillowing his head on the mattress and the hand of his free arm wrapped around Noct’s wrist.

“Highness,” Ignis suddenly breathes, shoving his chair away and almost tripping over his feet to get to Noctis.

Noctis can’t help the wry smile. So they’re back to ‘Highness’ now? Ignis must’ve been really worried. He only calls Noct ‘Hingness’ nowadays when he feels just a little too emotional and thinks he has to reel himself back in.

Ignis brushes his fingers across Noct’s forehead, pushing back his fringe, and then trails them down his cheek over a bandage that’s there too. “Gods, you are ridiculous,” he says in relief, something fond in his expression. “And reckless.”

“Wh—.” He coughs. Ignis coaxes some water into him. “What else was I supposed to do?” he manages to gasp out when he catches his breath. “Either I stayed where I was, and we all probably would’ve died. Or I save you guys, and maybe only I died.”

Ignis closes his eyes, looking exasperated and pained. “When you’re better, we’ll go over how completely wrong that statement is.”

Yeah, well, the way Noct sees it, he knows his worth pretty accurately thankyouverymuch. If he had to choose between himself and them, he would choose his friends every time. If he had to choose between himself and his people, he would choose his people. The real trouble would be between his friends and his people, but he’s not going to hurt his brain about it right now.

Instead, he leans into Ignis’ touch, lets his eyes flutter close. “‘m glad you’re okay,” he says quietly, slightly slurred.

He hears Ignis huff, hears the smile on his lips. His thumb caresses his cheek softly. “Thanks to you,” he murmurs. “You were incredibly brave, Noct. Your plan was ingenious. Get some sleep, get better. You deserve it.”

Noctis falls asleep with a smile on his face to Ignis carding his fingers through his hair, feeling warm and comfortable, finally able to rest.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me this whole week! This is not the last of my final fantasy xv fics, or even the end of my hurt!noct fics. I have more in mind and I’m going to be finishing them up over the next few months. (Including a chapter two for ‘and drown, but I will not sink.’
> 
> Thank you for all your amazing comments and encouragements, and well wishes on the last story. I’m going to try some time over the next week or so to respond to all of the comments I received.
> 
> This was such a great experience only bolstered by the amazing readers. Again, thank you!


End file.
